


The Rummy Affair of Cabin 12

by intothewildblueyonder



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Cruise, Drama, Established Romance, Feels, Humour, Love, M/M, Our favourite boys loving each other, Small bit of angst, Spode creates trouble, some smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-17 15:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14834813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intothewildblueyonder/pseuds/intothewildblueyonder
Summary: "Once more unto the breach, eh Jeeves?""It would seem so, sir."In which Bertie just wants to be left in peace, but engagements, newts and various antics on a ship get in the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First work in this fandom, so please understand that my voice won't be perfect yet. Also - any errors, please tell me about them. Very possible they will have reasons and be cleared up later, but...yeah. I do hope you enjoy this!

Throughout most of my adult life I have become used to all and sundry using the home as a sort of refuge for their troubles. How could they not, when inside lurks boy-scout Bertram, ready to lend a helping hand, and the dashed smartest valet to grace this earth? Why, a single look at Jeeves, with his magnificently protruding skull and whatnot, and it's a miracle I get even a moment of peace. They hear of his wondrous brain and come flocking.   
Even when we take a moment to rest the limbs half of London cannot be counted upon to stay out; not to mention Jeeves' tireless work ethic. That chap who spoke of only resting on the seventh day was a true lollygagger compared to my man.

No sooner have I managed to coax him away from ironing and tidying and finding various things to disapprove of then the bell rings and yet another one galumphs in, ready to spill their woes to one obliging Wooster. And what can a cove do? If your friends are in the soup the last thing they need to hear is 'Pop off, sonny, just for a half-hour while I canoodle with my valet.' The Code of the Woosters (and a fear of the chokey) forbids it.

For those in the cheap seats muttering 'Do get on with it, Wooster, this has nothing to do with the story', rest assured all this is merely intended for the _mise en scene_. This steady stream of chums in need of comfort has led to old Bertram taking full advantage of the uncluttered days he can take with Jeeves.  
Sort of akin to an orphan child who, living off crumbs most days, takes any opportunities to steal a plate of the finer stuff. What I really mean is, the days when there are no aunts hovering on the horizon and no knots to unravel are always more pleasant than the days when one must get by on only a few fond words, what?

That is why, on the day that kicked off the whole bally nightmare of Spode, the blue clutch and that chorus girl, the more forgiving of readers could understand why I had spent the morning in bed with Reggie, doing the sort of things chaps do when they love each other rather stupidly (well, in my case anyway - the mind boggles at the idea of Jeeves ever doing something foolish that doesn't include poor sartorial choices). 

The day proceeded in the typical fashion: I eventually heave-ho'd the old corpus out of our bed, had a few cups of the oolong and made it vey clear to Jeeves that I did desire to wear the pink tie. Some men, really - when given an inch they not only take a mile but half of your wardrobe. Just because he has my heart and soul and everything those poet Johnnies rave about does not mean, as I have had cause to inform him, that I will always bow to him on matters of dress. 

After lunch I popped out for a light drink with the Drones that then descended, for reasons I cannot recall, into some sort of delightful game that involved a walking stick, a veritable wodge of Tennyson, and the collision of one with the other. You may say what you like about the Drones - I often do, fine chaps as they are - but they never fail to show Bertram a good time. Bridge and cards, you can keep those pastimes! But a game where one may accidentally whack Bingo Little around the head, thus cutting the ramble about his new beazel of fancy...that's the stuff to give the troops. 

                                                                             ***********************************

"Any news, Reg?" I called with a spot of gaiety as I swung through the door.

"Several telegrams have come for you," he reported from his post in the kitchen.

"Oh. Ah, well, right-ho then."

Noticing the drop in my spirits Jeeves gave me a reassuring nod - a sort of 'there there, young man, I'll ensure it all turns out spiffingly.' A man far above the regular cut, I say and say again, even if his judgement on ties is rather iffy.

As keen readers will know - or anyone who cares to drop in to the Wooster sphere every now and then - I have learnt to fear a heap of telegrams. Telegrams, to Bertram, represent the lesser-known horsemen of the apocalypse: Aunts, Betrothals, Fiancées and Dust-ups.  
It was, therefore, with a dour expression that I approached the pile.

At first it seemed merely a false flag - friends arranging visits, an antiques shop arranging the delivery of a bookshop - tame stuff that, were one to write home about, would only prove a dry read and a waste of stationery. But as I scooped up the last I had a dreadful premonition that this was it, the one that would kick off some bally debacle - rather like the last demon in Pandora’s dresser-drawer of nightmares; although between just us, I challenge her to face a surfeit of aunts and useless friends and then ask herself if, really, she got the light end of the deal.

By the second line I knew that my suspicions had been validated. 

_Bertie,_   
_Be a dear, Attila, and join us on the cruise. Do some good for once in your beastly life and distract Madeline from mooning over that blight Spink-Bottle._   
_Ship docks on the 30th. I will see you at Brinkley the day before or never a morsel of Anatole’s shall past your lips again._   
_Regards. Travers._

It seemed Bertram had not been spared after all. However, in comparison to earlier favours this was rather light: no girls planned to push into my arms, and surely not even Dahlia could find something for the young Wooster to purloin on a ship. The mind boggles at the absurd plots the aged relative conjures, but I doubt even she would find use for a captain's cap.

Ah. Wait. I sense readers left floundering in the dust, one question to the forefront of their minds - what cruise is this?

Well, as most woes in life can be attributed to, it was the work of a certain moony M. Bassett. She, having run out of good old English country homes, views and mansions to rhapsodise over, had turned a dewy eye to the sea. One could hardly imagine - or should not, to spare themselves - the many references to water-pixies she could pull in to an conversation. As an early wedding gift Gussie had arranged a five-day cruise to the Mediterranean for the two; rather sweet, if you like that sort of thing, but ultimately a terrible idea.

In my humble opinion (which I have often been told counts for less than the paper used to wrap meat in) a cruise is never the best way to spend time with your beloved. Weather conditions can never be relied upon and one can hardly appear one's best self when they are doubled over a rail feeding our finned friends, to put it delicately. All that guff about mighty sailors standing proud at the bow is pure banana oil, if you ask me.

But never mind - the Bassett had been over the moon and dancing with all the moon sprites. Aunt Dahlia (the jolly aunt, don't you know - those who have ever confused her with my Aunt Agatha, the nephew-cruncher, have my sympathies) had decided to join this merry gang for research on a _Milady's Boudoir_ piece - What the Well-Dressed Woman wears on a Boat. Rather specific stuff, but I suppose when running a magazine for women you take any avenue of information possible, lest the fountain run dry and you are forced to re-run 'How to get Stains out of a Carpet' until the bored masses take against you. She had indulged in a spot of complaint against old Gussie: "mark my words, Bertie, that nuisance will either get thrown overboard or infest the ship with those dratted newts of his." But for the most part all had been looking appropriately ship-shape and tickety-boo until Gussie had, in his usual fashion, thrown a spanner into the works.

Jeeves shimmered into the room in his usual fashion.

"Is the news that of good fortune?"  
"Well, yes and no, Reg. Bit of a mixed bag."  
My man rose an eyebrow, indicating that he was gripped by my every word and could not wait to hear more.

"Dahlia wants us to join her on that cruise - the Bassett dread is lonely, it seems. The usual threats concerning Anatole, of course, and a healthy dose of insults, but apart from that all should be, as it were, smooth sailing."

He allowed one corner of his mouth to quiver at that, which I counted as a victory. The most prolific comic in all of England has not faced a challenged until he hath come up against my man Jeeves.

“Lonely, you say?"

"Misses Gussie, don't you know. If I were her I'd take any chance to get away from the poop, but who can account for women?"

"Very true indeed. 'Woman is different, that is half the secret of her charm. She is one of those delightful subjects we can discuss, concuss, and rediscuss from every imaginable point of view'-"

"Yes thank you, Reg. Your own?"

"No, Hutchinson, Civilisation and Health."

"Well all the best to him, then, but save some for later."

"If you wish. But in regard to Miss Bassett - I had thought and Mr Fink-Nottle were taking the trip together, sir.”

I gave him a stern talking-to with the brows - he knows how I feel about the use of 'sir' when it is just the two of us; two love-birds in their nest, as I would say if I desired to lose any scraps of self-dignity I still maintain.  
“The blighter's popped off again, old chap.”

His stuffed-frog exterior wavered at this, and I could not blame him. After all, it was in the communal interest that the Bassett was living quite happily with Gussie. 'Twere it was done sooner the better, or however it goes. Jeeves, bosom-buddy as he is with the Swan of Avon, would know.

“Again, s- _Bertie_?” he said. “It was my understanding very little could separate Mr Fink-Nottle from his betrothed.”

Truer words were never spoken - as dippy as Gussie was over his beloved (we all have our faults) one would assume he would be racing to bung himself into the old spongebags and round up twenty of the finest Drones to attend his ceremony. Up until a few days ago a more committed man you would not find if you took a whole week off to do it. 

But then, all of a sudden, he'd got wind of some newt colony of in the outer Hebrides and off he pops. A whole month with crusted newts; the mind boggles. There can't be so many newts in the world, and what will the poor chump do when he runs out? Pine on the moors in memory of the good old days, I suppose, although some would call that loony. The long and short of it was, Bassett had been left to take a cruise with only Aunt Dahlia for company; and as much as the old relative has  _bonhomie_  in spades one can sometimes desire more. As wary as I was of Madeline - more than five minutes spent in her company and I ended up engaged to her, had been the running theme so far - I could hardly begrudge her a spot of company.

I told Jeeves as much, and he inclined the lemon in a way that meant he was not happy about general proceedings, but understood my duty as a _preux chevalier_. 

“Let the aged a. know we shall drive down on the morrow, and throw in a few right-ho’s. Perhaps a joke or three to lighten her spirits?”

Jeeves said everything necessary with a mere tremble of his lips.

“You don’t think a few of the ripest gags would cheer her up, Reg?”

“Pat and Mike, if I may take the liberty, are an acquired taste.”

“What about the one with the horse and - all right, I know that look. Just the standard reply.”

“Very good, then.”

"And I will be taking the twill suit, before you say anything."

"If you insist, _sir_."

"Jeeves!"


	2. Chapter 2

Bertram Wooster is not one given to boasting. Ask him to lay out his best qualities and he will merely smile, shake the head, and change the subject; the very soul of modesty. There is one exception, however: ask him to talk about Jeeves, however, and the person posing the question would be invited to take a seat, set their watches and fetch a strong drink. I could happily ramble for hours about the many delights of my man, as could anyone who has had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. Jeeves, if asked about me, would no doubt make some polite comment and then move on - he is, after all, a reserved man. But in our time alone, when his stuffed-frog mask has been put away for the day, my love is far more sentimental. I will never forget when he told me, one day, how much he admired my kindness and generosity. Well, I mean, what else does a chap do but blush modestly and wave a hand? He then went on to praise my devotion to those I care for and how willing I was to drop everything for them, going on to say that I was the masterpiece of nature Emerson had been talking about, which was rather icing on the cake.

I was understandably touched when he told me this, and endeavoured to live the rest of my life in a manner he could be proud of (choices in hats and jackets notwithstanding). That is why when the aunt who kicked off this whole rummy affair called and insisted I arrive with the morning light...well, what could Bertram do but give a right-ho and begin to pack?

So come eight in the ack emma, instead of being tucked up in bed like any reasonable cove, we were on the road. The lark may have been on the wing and the snail in the thorn - or the other way around - but this Wooster, sprawled in the driver's seat, was interested in none of it. In fact, it was only the gasper in one hand and Reggie's paw in the other that maintained the dim belief that life was still worth living.

"Next time, Reg," I swore. "Next time I will stand tall and say, no, it can't be done. It's enough to spend a whole week entertaining a girl who thinks rose petals are a fairy's wash-cloth, but to demand our presence so early in the day is frankly ridiculous."

"I advise that you try to sleep now, sir, while you still can. I will not disturb you."

"Thank you, old fruit, but do stop calling me sir," I pleaded. "It's only us, half of London isn't crowded into the boot."

"I am afraid not, Bertie," he said tenderly. "We must get into character now, or I may slip in front of all. If I dropped my guard-"

"All right, dear thing, I know." A hard-done-by sigh escaped the Wooster lips. Even though I count myself one of the most dashed fortunate men on this earth - how many other can share their home, bed and life with the prime example of all humanity has to offer - there are times when the situation slides into one of the Hamlet: when all that damned nonsense from the family comes back to kick one Wooster in the seat of the pants.  
It's only one short step from there to sneaking around with a dagger jumping at shadows and speaking in riddles.

"Honestly, Reg," I sighed with more than a touch of the prince. "It's such a damned nuisance - I get one free moment with you and some old twig off the family tree drags us halfway around the world."

"Most unfortunate, sir," he agreed.

"One might as well be without family, eh? Like that boy set down among the reeds, all alone, what?"

"You refer to the infant Moses, sir, who was granted the ability to part water with his hands."  
I scowled at Jeeves, for a old Scripture-shark doesn't like to be told his business. How would a doctor feel if one day, some sprat off the street came wandering in and started telling them how to do their job?

"About that, actually - it never seemed fair to me. It's bloody fellows like that, thinking they're better than everyone else because they're palling around with our man on the cross, who puts the innocent fisherman off his trade. Seems downright unjust."

"Indeed, sir."

"Any reasonable jury would convict him."

"Unfortunately, sir, not all cases of injustice can come before the law."

"You're telling me, Reg! Why, if it were possible to arrest an aunt for her treatment of innocent nephews...I shudder to think of the fate that would befall Aunt Agatha." I sighed.

"I suppose one can only dream, sir."

"Don't mind if I do, my good man."

On that note I settled back in my seat, extinguished the gasper, and snapped the lids in search of forty winks. 

  
                                                           **********************************************************************

Aunt Dahlia had clearly been sipping the milk of human kindness with every meal since last we met, for she greeted young Bertram with a rallying cry and even a few kind words.  
"Ah, Attila," she cheered as I stepped from the two-seater. "So good of the huns to give their chief in command time off."  
"You call and I answer, aged a.," I replied.  
"Well, you're in luck, you young blot," she said with a satisfied sniff. "Anatole is in corking form as usual."

No small amount of joy was felt at this. I have often said that he, wizard of the cooking stove, could cause even the most down-hearted chappie to, having laid down the fork, leap to his feet and let loose a joyous cry. Take my uncle Tom; a soundish bird who, although always there for Bertram and generally not against helping an old lady across the road, can be accused of moping. It's the money, you see: has absolute gobs of it, and yet cries foul when the taxes come rolling in. Catch him after he is forced to dig into his coffers and, even if you come with an axe intending to do a bit of the murder-most-foul stuff, he is likely to say, 'oh why bother' and place his neck upon the desk for you.

Enter Anatole, and you have a Tom Travers dispensing money to who desireth. Magic, truly, and all down to the master of spice and salt. Dictators, no doubt, after taking over half the free world, would be tempted after his gratin dauphinois to sit back, re-think their decisions, and decide conquering the further-flung depths of Africa could wait until another day.

As Jeeves inclined the coconut at our hostess - who greeted him with a cry more suited to the organisation of the Quorn, or any like-minded organisation who suggests its members take a break from the hassle of life to chivvy a few foxes across the countryside - the door of Totleigh Towers swung open and a young girl sauntered out, unfamiliar to Bertram. The hackles immediately rose. One becomes a dab hand at spotting traps when avoiding them is simply part of the day-to-day routine, and this had all the settings of one: a new girl, a boat trip and an eagerness to have me aboard.

"Amelia!" bellowed Aunt Dahlia as if she were summoning the girl from half a field away. An unfortunate characteristic, but once a fox-hunter always a fox-hunter, and there seems nothing more to be done about it. I turned to the aunt and pursued my lips, making my disapproval of this whole situ. quite clear.

"Lovely duck impression, dear child, but do save that nonsense for your boy's club or Anatole will be moved to grill, braise and cover you in an orange sauce."

I saw some wires had been crossed.

"I do not look to imitate a duck, dear aunt. I stare at you with disapproval."

"Oh do you now, young blot?"

"Yes, Aunt Dahlia, I do. I suspect mischief afoot. Is this another plan to fling Bertram into the arms of the last eligible woman in Britain?"  
She gave a snort indicative of a lady who spends her days in the clubroom of a home for sailors. Not very elegant, and a touch of the rude about it.

"Heaven help anyone who takes up that plan, Bertie. I've come to the conclusion that finding you a wife is simply not a task meant for the faint heart of any woman. No one, in this day and age, would choose a cretin such as you, no matter how amiable."

"Oh really, old aunt, is that completely fair?"

"Very."

"But-"

"Enough."

"I only-"

"Bertie, darling, hush."

"Oh, all right."

"No, silly boy, that is Miss Amelia. Our current fashion writer. Apparently she's a," the aunt sniffed, " _chorus_ girl on the side. It's not ideal but everyone else I interviewed couldn't tell a soft-bosom shirt from an elephant, so she stays. She will be coming with us and this article is very important so therefore, you pestilence, do nothing to upset her."

"I say!" I protested. One does not want his name besmirched in such a fashion. After all, hear the name 'Bertram Wooster' and do you think of a man who uses the hearts of beazels as tissue paper, to wrinkle and throw away? Of course not; you think of a generous soul with a kind word for all - or, if you are a certain Bassett, any kind of drippy character who fits the dream-rabbit ideal.

"Enough with your I-saying, my boy. You do not have a leg to stand on to go around I-saying whoever you please. Your record with women is hardly one for the books, and so far that has fallen on your own silly head. But if you scare this dear creature off, consider yourself barred from my door."

"Message understood, old thing," I promised. "Best behaviour."

Judging by her snort and under-the-breath mutter of something to do with fatheads who cannot be trusted around women, her faith in Bertram was not completely solid. Nothing stirs a certain pique in Bertram like the desire to prove someone wrong, which has led to such nights as that of the annual Boat Race night a year back, when your narrator rolled in at two in the morning. I remember it began with young Chuffy claiming I could not drink half of a bottle of absinthe, and after that blurs rather. Heaven knows what havoc was wrecked; after shaking me out Jeeves demanded an explanation for the waitress's cap stored in one pocket and the kitten peeking out of my waistcoat, neither of which I could give. He gave the kitten away to the doorman's daughter, which made me rather sad: I would've enjoyed the young thing's company. Jolly things, cats.

But enough of this - with the clear goal set in mind of proving all wrong vis-a-vis my ability to hold a clear, sane conversation with one of the fairer s., I ankled over to Miss Amelia.

"Hullo-ullo-ullo!" I greeted with the upmost joviality. Up close I could see she was rather good-looking: wonderful profile, wide blue eyes, a cheerful demeanour. The sort of girl who frolics in fields of flowers and so on, which left me certain she and Madeleine would hit it off.

"Mister Wooster?"

"Oh, the one and only, don't you know," I beamed at her. The look she gave me was one not unfamiliar to me, learnt from the faces of aunts from the youngest of ages: that in her opinion I was, clearly, not shopping with a full purse of pennies. And why not - I have even seen it from Reg, although in his case it veers towards benevolent and concerned; the way a mother casts an eye over a child that may go on to do something with its life, but at the same time may just end up a blot upon society. The same way she may look at a tot who claims, standing a foot high, that he will one day go on to be a cabinet minister.

"Yes. I've heard about you." Any reasonable fellow would quail at the way she spoke - she had clearly heard all manner of tales that cast the poor Wooster in an unfortunate light. One lunch with Roderick Glossop, the loony doctor who considered me only one straitjacket away from a promising contender for his Worst Patient of the Year, would do it.

"So you've joined the Boudoir then?"

"Your aunt hired me yesterday," she informed me, and I gave a cheery 'ah well, better you than me' chuckle that resulted in a raised brow and a sudden relocation to ten feet away from the young Wooster.

"I despair of you," the kindly aunt reported. "Put an attractive stranger in front of you, and what do you do - squawk and gibber at her."

Before I could inform her in the most civil of tones that all I was doing was create a jolly, light-hearted air - no mean feat when surrounded by such doubters - she had swooped upon the beazel, put an arm around her shoulders and drawn her away. The snatch of conversation I heard - "well, we didn't think a blighter like him would survive in Colney Hatch" - made the decision for me. Miss Amelia would, just like the Bassett, be one to steer clear of for the next week. I had some doubts about how this could be done on a boat, but with any luck the aged a. would convince me to disguise  as a sailor for some hare-brained scheme. If I got extremely lucky I might even fall overboard and be sent floating down the old Swanny River, back to a home free of dratted females.

"The lady Amelia thinks I've got something wrong with the lemon, Jeeves," I informed him. 

"If I would be so bold, sir, there is no accounting for taste," he said cooly. 

"You may be so bold, Jeeves. I rather like that side of you."

One side of his mouth curled upwards.

"I always endeavour to give satisfaction, sir."

And on that cheery note, we headed indoors.


	3. Chapter 3

Of course, the time for meeting the Bassett had to come, and this Wooster had to face it with a bold stance. It would not be fitting for the descendent of Woosters past - especially the ones who lumped themselves off to Agincourt - to hide in his room from a beazel, no matter how frightful. The idea did cross my mind more than once, even endeavouring to rest there for a moment, but I stayed strong. If we were to be stuck on a boat together some things would have to be made perfectly clear _re_ proposals and whatnot. 

After a bit of wandering around, narrowly avoiding a run-in with old Tom in his silver room (the matiest of chums, but once he becomes fixed on a subject such as his digestion or teaspoon collection one might as well clear their schedule for the next three hours) I found la Bassett in the sitting room, a letter no doubt from Gussie on her lap. Figuring this was the most ideal time - how could she look to an old love with memories of the current before her and whatnot - I hove into view. Upon seeing the Wooster corpus Madeline gave a little gasp, looking rather the dippy heroine in those plays so popular these days. You know the ones: girl with a corking figure but so half-baked she oozes onto the plate, wafts around sighing and starting at so much as a pin dropping. Most of the time, I'd say, they end with some strong cove sweeping her off her feet and promising to defend her from kittens forevermore. Rather touching, if you like that sort of thing.

"Oh _Bertie_ ," she sighed, which wasn't exactly a positive starter, but I waded in nonetheless. 

"Hello old girl!" I said with a wide beam.

"Oh Bertie," she repeated.

"Good to see you again," I attempted.

"Yes, of course it is - it always is - but _oh_ , Bertie!"

Seeing that she planned to suck the vein of 'oh-Bertie' dry, I settled back and rested the old billowy portions in a comfortable armchair.

 "When I heard you were coming I could not help but fear for you," the Bassett finally said. Always good to move onto fresher pastures of conversation and whatnot. "Considering...what I mean to you. Is it still like that, Bertie?"

"Afraid so, dear thing," I said, for a Wooster is a gentleman first and last of all, even if he would rather lie dead in a ditch then become shackled to a certain Bassett. One does not tread on a girl's heart, no matter how downright loony she is.

"I applaud you for coming, Bertie," she said with a gulp. "A lesser man would steer clear, but you - oh Bertie, you are so brave. It must hurt you to see me and to know I can never..." she faltered, wiped her eyes, and mustered one final push, "be yours."

"Oh, terribly," I said cordially. "But no point of living in the past and all that rot."

The Bassett gave a rather gusty sigh. "A true knight," she whispered, and we settled on that for a few moments.

                                                    ***************************************

One must not complain about matters beyond their control - to do so only creates feelings of resentment that cannot be alleviated. I would not advocate worrying about what cannot be solved any more than I would suggest purple socks for everyday - in fact, any day - wear.

For the most part, I am truly content with my life. My work is rewarding, my friends true, and I spend each day with a man I love. Not all can be so fortunate, and so I do not begrudge the small inconveniences: the argument over wardrobe, the financial outlay of various schemes, having to rescue my master and lover from a new engagement each week so that we may remains secure in the 'bachelor' days.

That is not to say, however, that when I happened upon Mr Wooster and Miss Bassett, that my hackles did not rise ever so slightly. I did not fear whatever hold she had over Mr Wooster - I had heard him be positively blistering about her - but I did fear her belief that he loved and needed her still. Because my dear, kind man believed in being a _preux chevalier_ above all else, he knew no way to dissuade her from that. And so we struggled on, waiting for her marriage and the end of the threat.

I cam in on her saying, "Why, Bertie, how lovely of you!" From this I gathered he had complimented her, as is his wont. This would certainly explain why Miss Madeline was, I fear, looking at him with rather a charmed expression. While I appreciate Mr Wooster's kind-hearted nature - in truth, that was one of the factors that drew me to him - such a nature is not without downsides. The constant advantage his friends take of his generosity, for example, rankles me more than is professional. And of course, it has the unfortunate effect of drawing ladies I know he would rather be without. This case stood tribute to that better than anything.

"Oh, think nothing of it." He gave me a quick nod and I busied myself over by the drinks cabinet.

"But you should not have put yourself through such pain."

Mr Wooster was doing quite well, but a quick glance showed there was a touch of the desperate about him. As I have often commented, there would be no man to be found who could extol more passionately his virtues, but the single flaw remains: his inability to deal with the uncomfortable situation. His visit and speech at a school for young ladies stands a shining example to that; such was the failure that he still winces when someone as much as mentions public speaking. I could see that this was painful for him, and could not help but worry. 

"Well, you know, anything for a dear girl - friend," he corrected himself, and I allowed a nod of approval. To make sure lines were clearly drawn was a wise move.

"But I shall not be lonely, Bertie!"

"Well, one can only take so much of old Dahlia, sound egg as she is," he attempted, topping it off with a laugh rather more strangled than the sounds of merriment I am used to (and devote a far amount of time to instigating).

"But there will not be just her - you see, Roderick agreed to keep me company!"

In my place Mr Wooster would employ one of his favoured literary cliches: 'my heart stopped', 'my blood ran cold' - you understand the general theme. As I had been raised and trained never to feel or show emotion around those I was serving, I will say my surprise did not physically manifest in anything beyond a raised brow. Mr Wooster, who wears his heart on his (checked, unless I have a say in it) sleeve, let out a shocked, "Good God!"

And suddenly, Roderick Spode appeared in the doorway. It is worth noting that he had what could be described as a deadly look in his eyes.

"Oh," Mr Wooster said weakly, and I do believe I saw him stagger. "The whole gang together, what-oh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments etc are always appreciated! Have a lovely day


	4. Chapter 4

I don't mind saying that seeing Spode rattled me a certain degree. On my list of 'Chaps I Would Share a happy Lunch With' he was at the bottom with Machiavelli and my Aunt Agatha. In our previous acquaintances he had been keen on threatening me in a range of creative and colourful ways; the last I can recall was to pull my heart out and make me swallow it without chaser.

So the Wooster at risk was in a foul mood for the rest of the evening, one that not even a medley of roasts and boileds from Anatole could lift. I did feel the spirits lift when he wheeled out a superb _coq au vin_ , but one glance at Spode's menacing face was enough to send me back into the mire. Spode's face is, at the best of times, an excellent dietary aid - he makes you feel ill at ease just by existing - but when it wears the expression of hatred...well, not even the hungriest of chaps can choke his sup down. And as for brandy in the smoking room after - why, no man dead or alive could convince me to step through those doors. The safest path, it seemed, and the only one that wouldn't lead me into quicksand, was to barricade myself in my room until morning.

I had only just settled in an armchair and cracked a book - the familiar page-turner with cobras and dastardly chappies springing up all over the place - when a loud knock came at the door. I am not too proud to admit the Wooster jumped rather, and the sigh of relief when only Aunt Dahlia waded in could probably be heard in neighbouring countries.

For a woman who has just fed from the trough of Anatole she looked remarkably tense. Spode could not be troubling her too - I pity the man foolish enough to threaten my aunt and I pity his wife, to whom the business of arranging the funeral will fall to - so I was at a loss. After a few matey greetings, I dared to approach her with a "What's biting you, old thing" to which she turned the gimlet eye upon Bertram.

"Miss Amelia has just told me a very interesting story, Bertie," she said in a rather odd voice. Touch of the strained about it, if you know what I mean. Spoken through gritted teeth and all that.

"Was it the one about the showgirl and the pope?" I hazarded. "I understand if it rattled you a tad, when I heard it-"

"Do be quiet a rare moment, pet, I want to catch it on camera so I can tell my grandchildren," she ordered.

The Wooster obligingly hushed.

"No, dearie. It wasn't one of your foul smoking-room tales." She began to toy with a small state of a ceramic elephant; you know the type, rather twee and terrible. Even Hannibal at his height of desperation would turn such a weak specimen aside - say frankly 'no use for you, sonny, stay home instead'. "Would it have been so, I might have walked out of the conversation only five pounds lighter. But what she said...oh Bertie, I could feel the weight falling off. The shock has made me like a ghost. I could float in and out of a room without anyone even seeing me."

One could hardly call me the world's authority on anything, least of all spectres and their wafting cohorts, but it did require a high suspension of disbelief to imagine my pink-faced hale and hearty aunt as a waif. Still, whatever makes her canary sing.

"It appears Miss Amelia is friends with that Roderick Glossop of yours."

"He is not my Glossop, old thing," I corrected, for one could hardly let such a slur pass. I put up with having chaps as Oofy Prosser eating the Wooster bread and salt, but having that loony-doctor being considered a chum of mine? That was a step too far. "Whatever connection that may exist between us is through no desire of mine, nor his. I consider him-"

"Bertie!"

"Yes, dear ancestor?"

"Miss Amelia has met Roderick Glossop," she repeated. More was the pity for her, of course, but nothing a stiff drink afterwards wouldn't solve, and I said as much.

"How much clearer must I be, you wretched nit?" The poor old aunt was looking rather frazzled at this point, rather like the woman from that poem Jeeves talks about: she rent her hair and rav'd as if some fiend her soul possess'd, or something along that line. It seemed we were only a moment or so away from her searching for a sword to pierce her heart with, which would spoil proceedings rather.

"She knows about you. The fish, the hot-water bottle, the twenty cats in the bedroom-"

"Five cats," I insisted. When one's name is being besmirched the facts might as well be correct.

"Five, ten, tabby, be it as you like! The point is, after meeting you, she believes she is under the same roof as someone who should be wearing a straitjacket as a day-coat!"

Seeing that she was clearly upset, I let her smash the elephant in peace and move onto a cheap bamboo thing before piping up with a burning question.

"So does old Roderick just trot Bertram and his misunderstandings out at dinner parties?"

"Apparently you're a classic case study," she said around the bamboo statue, which she had lowered herself to biting in half. "Every respected doctor knows to cross the road when they see you coming."

"Well, of all the nerve-"

"Don't speak of nerves, dear child, mine are shattered," she pleaded.

"Sorry, aged a."

"And now," she said with dramatic flair, rather like the messenger in ye olde plays who has, after five verses of fah-di-ray and so on, reached the crux of their message: namely, that the barbarians are at the gates. "She, instead of giving me a good piece for a fine price, has demanded extra payment for having to holiday with a lunatic. Personal risk, she calls it." Her facial expression made it clear what she though of this - namely, that it was tripe not even Anatole could render worthy of a dinner plate. "These modern girls, Bertie, are getting out of hand. Why, they practically call for life insurance before they put their shoes on each morning. It's reasons like these-"

"Yes yes, old girl," I cut in, "all very sad, wholeheartedly agree and all that, but what do I do?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to be sharing a boat with a girl who considers me next door to a wild man, a fruitcake with extra cream!"

"An idea I second fully," she said in a most un-matey manner.

"But what do I do?"

"Ah yes, about that. Stay in your room, if you please." By now she was drifting towards the door, taking a figurine of Napoleon - or another chappie with a prominent schnoz - for a midnight snack. "If you rid me of the last half-decent girl in London I shall send a daily barrage of curses and hexes to your dratted apartment, no matter what cost the postage."

"But, I say!"

"Say all you like, my boy, just make sure none of it is about cats - at least not around her - or the dratted creature will run for the high hills."

And on that cheery note - coupled with a wild salute - she left me. Alone but with only my worried thoughts for company, if you understand me.

"Sir?"

"Jeeves," I cried out with no small sense of relief, and all but fell into his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

Never let it be said that a Wooster allows himself to fall victim to his situation. What with Spode hovering menacingly on the horizon, the goofiest creature to ever represent the gentler sex floating round and a girl who thought I was a few potatoes short of a full Irish Stew, a fellow could be forgiven for feeling down, even giving up. Some would - after meeting one bump in the road they put their feet up and wait for the lead piping of Fate to whack them over the noggin and take them off to sunnier pastures. Scratch a Wooster , however, and you will find a fighter through and through. There is a reason old Richard the Third spoke so proudly of our work at Agincourt, or another of those places where everything is falling down and you cannot get a decent b. and s. for love nor money.

Therefore, after allowing myself only a few moments to brood and slump in the armchair, I leapt up filled with hope and whatnot. After all, the old Wooster had travelled far stormier seas than this (which I told Jeeves, and I am sure he was laughing on the inside, very, very deep down) and emerged ship-shape. With the brain to defeat them all at my side, I could afford to take a sunny view. 

"After all, the Bassett is still very much in love with Gussie," I explained to my man as he pulled away the outer crust - an action that, had we been safe at home, would have set the scene for a most enjoyable evening.

"Undeniably so, sir."

"And I was thinking - yes, even I, Jeeves -"

"I did not speak, sir."

"Ah, well, right-ho then. Perhaps it's better the ninny isn't here - he'll have no chance to make any silly mistakes this way, such as let loose a swarm of crushed newts upon the dining room."

"I fancy the term you are looking for is crusted, sir."

"You can bally well fancy it all you like, Jeeves, but the day this man becomes well-versed in the language of newts is the day he goes to meet his maker."

"As you wish, sir."

"And with a fine dose of romantic letters, the love will bloom. She, not confronted with the real thing, will re-imagine him as a sensitive, mature, sane man, and nary a thought for the Wooster shall pass her mind. The two shall become closer than ever-"

I cut off here, for Jeeves had just pulled out one of the garments I had snuck into the wardrobe and was investigating it with the look of the constable in my book - "hardened by crime and horror, he could only twitch a lip at the gruesome corpse below him" or words to that effect.

"Ah, you see the jacket, Jeeves?" I said with an attempt at joviality. 

"I would not, sir, if I had the choice."

I bristled rather at that, for we had been engaged in a battle over this jacket for a fair few months. He, being as closeted in fashion as he is, thought the print was unfitting for a gentleman "who does not amuse young ladies and their companions on a pier with ribbons and juggling balls, sir." I, however, believed it was a dashing item of clothing and would be well received in any other place, such as on the Continent.  

"One day, old thing, you will love this jacket as you do Bertram, what?" I attempted. He rose one brow, indicating that I should not hold my breath for such a day lest I pass out. With a sigh I gave up on such a battle and turned back to positivity. 

"After all, dear thing, we leave tomorrow." I ankled out of the plus-fours. "We'll only spend a few days on the boat, and surely even old Bertram can spend his time bobbing up and down without getting engaged to everyone around him."

"We can only hope, sir."

"Pish-posh, Jeeves." I took a moment to make sure the door was locked - despite popular opinion this Wooster is not completely half-witted - then slid my arms around his waist. "No need to say it, old man."

"Sir?"

"They can cram the boat with every fanciable beazel known to mankind, you will still be the tops in Bertram's eyes."

"You flatter me, sir, but-"

"Oh hush, Reg."

" _Name_ , sir-"

And to hush his protests, I gave him a fine dose of the Wooster lips. Which, I am happy to say, more or less worked.

                                                 ****************************************

A fine breakfast, I would say, is determined by two things: food, and company. The first was taken care of - Anatole, ensuring his palace beyond those pearly gates, had cooked up a spread of pastries to make the mouth water. As for company, the Bassett was sipping a cup of coffee when I wandered in, but there was a cheerful lack of Spodes, aunts and judgemental chorus girls.

"Good morning, Bertie."

"Hullo, old girl," I answered, eyes alighting upon a letter in her dainty paw. "Letter, have you?"

"Yes, from Gussie."

"Oh, Gussie?"

"Yes, Gussie sent it."

Having established this, I settled down to a cup of the vital oolong and a piece of toast. Their relationship, it seemed, was as steady as ever, and as she tore the envelop open I allowed myself to close the eyelids in bliss - a night spent reading one of crime's finest, coupled with the relief that one will not have to lead a loony down the aisle, leaves a man sleepy.

A sudden shriek arose and I, still lost in the world of cobras and treacherous butlers, made a grab for the butter knife. 

"It's Gussie!" the Bassett howled, trembling rather like a puppy too daffy to get out of the rain. "He's broken off the engagement!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohohohohoho the drama begins! And yes, I'm back (in black)


	6. Chapter 6

"That utter fathead!"

It is a funny thing that one, when in the need of a cutting word, can only come up with the sort of insults suited to schoolboys. Why, Bertram was once plunged - in a story I am not sure I have told before - into the bath in full evening dress by that nuisance Glossop, and riper for a ticking off I had never met. Yet when I stood before him dripping, all the wounded could muster was a loud "blast!" before storming off to squeeze himself dry in the manner of a sponge reconsidering his choice in friends.

"That _utter_...fathead!" I repeated furiously.

"Mister Fink-Nottle, sir?"

Words could not suffice for the withering glare I shot Jeeves (one does not spend time around the dreaded Gorgon Aunt Agatha without learning how to give a furious glare; an apt pupil, as it were).

"Of course the idiot Gussie, who else? Lord Percival the Third? Do keep up with general proceedings, Reg."

And I meant it to sting, which only goes to show how flustered I was. Usually it takes something on a grand scale - the ruin of an alpine hat I had favoured dearly, for example, which had left me cold for days and Jeeves forbidden to use the iron until he was able to stop ruining the y.m.'s wardrobe with it. 

His returning stare was as close as Jeeves will ever get to disdain. "I apologise, sir."

Of course, in this sort of situation one can be forgiven for being at odds and ends, but all the same it is hardly _preux_ to snap at your valet and keeper of your heart. With a loud sigh I collapsed into an armchair and began to make my apologies.

"Terribly sorry, Reg. I don't mean to lash out at you-"

"I completely understand, sir." The man was clearly just saying this to be polite; his voice was so frosty I quite mourned the absence of a warm winter jacket. 

"It's a rum situ., ey Jeeves?"

"Indeed, sir."

"Just when I thought I was shot of the bally girl she pops out of the ether, determined to ruin my life, just like...like...Jeeves, who was that cove who insisted on stopping by just when everything was ticketty-boo and thwarting the king?"

"I believe you are thinking of Banquo, sir, from _Macbeth_ , or as some call it the Scottish Play."

"Am I? Oh well, you'd know better than I, old fruit."

" 'Thou canst say I did it/Never shake thy gory locks at-'"

"Eh?"

"Macbeth, sir. Upon seeing the bloody ghost of Banquo he turns quite unsettled, beginning a downfall into madness. It is said to be one of Shakespeare's most significant works."

I started rather in my armchair. One gets used to Jeeves trotting out all manner of poetry and wise old words from prophets thousands of years ago who lived in caves and never washed, but that really was the giddy limit. "Good lord, Jeeves! Are you saying the Bassett is going to shimmy in covered in blood?" Knowing the sheer looniness of the girl I wouldn't put it past her, though the three-piece suit of blood was probably too much for a girl who mourn the absence of pixies in the gardens. 

"No, sir. It is merely a metaphor for the mistake of our pasts coming back to haunt us."

 I snorted. "Figures, doesn't it? I'm so fed up with metaphors, Jeeves, stuffed to the bloody gunnels with them. Why can't we just say that up is up and down is down and leave it like that?"

"Very true, sir."

"If I ever encounter a metaphor in the wild, Jeeves, be forewarned I will most likely chuck a slipper at it."

"A sensible precaution, sir," said he with nary the faintest glimmer in his eye.

As it seemed we had gotten terribly off-track I now steered us back to beaten path. "Enough of this, Jeeves. We have all the long winter nights ahead of us to discuss Banquos and loopy Scotsmen, but only now for the Bassett. What am I going to do?"

"I would suggest making yourself absent, sir, until I can formulate a complete plan."

"You mean hie for the hills?"

"Precisely, sir, although I believe the rose garden would suffice. Far closer."

After ruling it over, I decided the idea had much merit. "Spot-on as always, Jeeves."

"Most kind, sir."

"Now I better make tracks, before that girl comes oozing up the stairs and asks-"

"May I speak with you, Bertie?"

I stared at Jeeves, and I am not too proud to say I goggled. The man's talents are many, but never had I heard him perform such an imitation. He put Oofy Prosser to shame, who, when sufficiently pumped full of the good stuff, could do a cracking Mae West. "I say, Jeeves, however did you do that? Blow me down, you sounded just like-"

"Miss Madeline Bassett, sir," Jeeves said, and moved aside to reveal the bane of my existence in the flesh. 

"Oh," I said. "Ah. Of course."

                                                                    **********************************************************

The best I could say about my chat with the Bassett was that it was over quickly, much in the same way an execution is. Despite all the pleading glances I gave Jeeves floated out in his usual way - you know, just like those spectral chappies at Point A who merely blink and end up at Point B. The Bassett gave me her usual speech, promised she wanted to make me happy (she was going about it in a bally funny way, I sourly thought) and then, with a sob, made her leave. I, feeling as if my limbs had been replaced with custard, flopped into a chair and wondered if there was any point in going on.

The answer to that question, of course, soon flickered back into the room.

"Did she say why Mister Fink-Nottle broke the engagement, sir?" 

At that I let out a laugh that, had Aunt Dahlia been in the vicinity, would have had Roderick Glossop around and siting on my head before lunchtime.

"Can you believe it, Jeeves, he's met another woman!"

You really cannot credit it, can you. Years go by without a single beazel thinking 'hmm, I rather feel like spending my twilight years with a spineless newt-fancier' and then suddenly a great drove come along.

"Really, sir?"

"Apparently he ran into her also studying newts, they recognised a kindred spirit, and now he's sending out invitations to the wedding of the year." 

"I shall pass my good wishes onto him, sir."

"No you will not, Jeeves, not if I have any dratted say in it. Pass onto him every foul word in existence; send a plague upon him and this dratted newt-woman...honestly, Jeeves, how unlucky is that? The only two people in the world who find newts a ripping conversation starter, and they find each other."

"Some may call it fate, sir."

"And this Wooster may call it a nuisance beyond measure." There was only one thing left to do, and at a complete loss I did it - I cradled my coconut in my hands and let out an window-cracking howl.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARRRRGGGHHHHH I'M SO SORRY  
> My life became truly hectic but I am BACK!  
> I will try to update, ooh, every month at least.  
> \- Toodles from Miss Noodles, xooox

I am not a man given to pessimism. To be an expert valet one must be stiff of spine, steady of hand and controlled of the brow; moderate with the brandy, gentle with the iron and firm with the wardrobe. Above all those, he must seek to please his master in any way possible.

(I had made the mistake of telling Mr. Wooster of this code some months back, and he chose to edit it rather, with the addition of some absolutely filthy commands. In the manner of my job, of course, I went about them earnestly. Many previous gentlemen have complimented my relentless pursuit of their comfort in years past, but never so...graphically). 

My point being, you understand, that as glum as affairs were, I could not simply hang my head and say I had given it my best shot. My job was action. Mr. Wooster had skulked off, informing me it was a toss-up between suicide and emigration. I could only recommend Cuba, after seeing his latest purchase of socks, but even the thought of a gentleman's hat adorned with fruit - positively tame compared to his nightclothes - failed to lift his spirits. 

I longed to go to him, to take him in my arms and murmur assurances, but one does not keep their reputation by failing to take a chance when presented. Instead of retiring with my beloved, I went to my quarters where, I was pleased to see, Seppings had kindly left a pen and ink-bottle. No doubt he remembered my frequent requests from years past. They were not the grandest of tools, but - I hoped - enough to see my plan through.

Here I must make a confession. Despite my tomes of poetry, I am no natural romantic. Mr. Wooster, of course, has quite a knack for the soft word when in the right mood (and that is all I, as a gentleman, can provide on that). No matter how much Byron I leaf through, I will never detail my lover's face in the glory it deserves. But that does not mean I do not try. Indeed, my master has been the enthusiastic recipient of various sonnets over our time together, and deemed them all "smashing!" From a man who considers _Whoops-a-Daisy, Missus Maisy, I Didn't See You There_ akin to a work from the great masters, I take his words with a pinch of salt. 

This, however, called for a casting aside of pride. Now was not the time to hem and haw, but to act decisively if I wanted to save the man I loved from choosing between a rabbits or pixies theme for a wedding.

And so, steeling myself with a drop of whiskey, I began. 

                                                         ******************************************************************

Friends and other nuisances of a mixed bag may say I place too much faith in Jeeves, but by gum, if not him then who else? The man makes up the very best of humanity: a sharp brain, a guiding hand and a corking profile once under the sheets. Were he ever to hear me say that, of course, I am sure the man would pale by three shades and plead " _Decency_ , sir." Marvelous morals, that one. Would he be removed from the backbone of Britain, I have no doubt it would collapse upon itself like a poorly constructed sandcastle. 

But, apart from all of that, I had no doubt he would fish me out of the soup in no time at all. To say I was disappointed when I woke and found Madeline Bassett not among the alps, having been persuaded that nun-ning about and bothering sheep would be just the ticket, would understate the matter. Miss Amelia's glares, coupled with her trotting out of whatever room I entered, was just the tip of the thingummy. Instructed by my kindly aunt to "not rock the boat by being an absolute blighter, natural as it may be to you" I retired to the rose garden and took up a bench, wondering why Merry Olde England continued to disappoint me so. 

                                                        *********************************************************************

I do not wish to utter my own praises. Living with Mr. Wooster, a man truly dear to me but - in the words of his aunt - lighter around the ears than he is on his feet, one might easily get puffed up on compliments and see himself as the cleverest man to walk the earth. I do not wish to meet such a fate. Quite apart from anything, I judge Mr. Wooster as possessing of far more intelligence than he will ever let anyone catch on.

That being said, I did feel my plan was a solid one. The only distrustful element was Miss. Madeline herself, and I - based on the psychology of the particular and obsessive individual - could safely assume she would be on the look-out for her future groom. 

After only a minute's searching I found her among the grounds, gushing to a servant boy about, among other things, the delights of Fate.

"Which is just what I said to my darling Bertie," I came across her exclaiming, "that him and I knew each other in another time! How else could you explain our bond, or his devotion to me? Oh the dear little bunny rabbit, when I think of him pining over me for centuries...isn't it just enough to make you weep?"

The boy, who, if he had tears in his eyes, they were merely a product of sheer mirth, nodded politely. "I'm sure he fair blushed at such nice words, Ma'am."

"Why, he was so overcome he headed straight for the whiskey!" She tutted. "A habit I will put an end to, but how his romantic soul pleases me! When I said we might have been two stars in the very same constellation he left immediately, and not a moment later I heard him shouting outside. What a man, that he cannot contain his love for me."

Intercepting swiftly, I sent the servant boy away - highly unprofessional of him, to be in conversation with the high class, but I suppose the delighted Miss. Bassett was telling her story to anyone who walked by - and tipped my head to her. 

"Hello, Jeeves! Have you heard the wonderful news?"

"I extend my congratulations, Miss."

"As much as I," here she paused to delicately sniff, "miss my Gussie, how could I say no to Bertie? The poor man all but shakes when I approach." A girlish light shone in her eyes. "Tell me, Jeeves, has he ever spoken to you about me?

There are times in my line of work where the truth must be avoided. Knowing that the correct answer - often, and in tones of scorching irritation - would derail my scheme, I simply said, "I could not say, Miss."

"Are you looking for him too?"

"Yes, Miss. A package just arrived for him, and I feel it my duty to deliver it."

I took care to say these words as breezily as I professionally could. 

"Oh, give it to me! I'll track my darling down."

"I would not wish to inconvenience you, Miss-"

She all but snatched the package from me. "Not at all, Jeeves! Why, I want to do nice things for him. Speaking of, I just bought the dearest pink wool and I was thinking of knitting him some mittens for the cold nights. What do you think?"

"A very nice gesture, Miss," I said respectfully. It was not her place to know that, in the winter months, Mr. Wooster requires nothing but my form - after he has meticulously stripped off my nightclothes - and a roaring fire to remain comfortable. The few times he has brought those elements together I judge, from the sounds he made, he has found satisfaction. 

"I'll see you later," she said with a girlish little giggle, and all but skipped off. I waited the appropriate moment, and then followed.

                                        ******************************************************************

With the rotten luck I'd been having, it shouldn't have surprised me that no sooner had I lifted my feet then did the Bassett approach. Jeeves may blather on about that chappy Job - I believe they were at school together - but I tell you, at that point I would have gladly traded my lot for his. 

"Hello, my knight!" 

"Oh, ah, what-ho," I blathered. "Jolly morning and all that, hmmm?"

"Just delightful." She placed herself delicately on the bench and sort of...shimmied towards me in a fashion I cared not at all for. "I've been telling everyone the good news!"

"Ah, and how did the aged a. react?"

"Your aunt? Oh, she mumbled something about how even Russian Roulette got it right once in a while - is that another ladies magazine? I'm so ignorant of the fashions over in the states - and then said 'I wish you and Attila luck.' Is Attila your middle name?" She oozed a little closer. "How heroic it sounds! Your parents must have known the wonderful knight you'd become."

Not liking the path this was going down - her lips were gaining proximity at quite a rate of knots - I made to excuse myself when she dumped a package into my lap.

"Jeeves brought this out, by the way. He was so happy for us, oh, the loyalty of the working class truly warms my heart at times!" 

Here I fought to bite back a retort: namely that if it was up to me, Jeeves would rise above the hoi polloi and be my equal in every way that counted. How long had I desired that, to seal him to me, to give him my name, to bung him into the dreaded tie and tails? He deserves the fate of the finest beazels God has to offer.

"Well, aren't you going to open it?"

Seeing no way out, I tore into it. Out fell a letter and, strangely, a blue purse. One of those fashionable ones, don't you know, that wouldn't even hold a pair of opera-glasses. 

A screech that brought to mind, rather insistently, teakettles, issued from the rosebud lips of the Bassett.

"Bertie,  _darling_ , you didn't!"

Unsure what I did or did not do, I remained silent.

"Bertie, I can't believe you ordered me such a gift! Even before you knew we would be reunited, you naughty boy." She scooped it to her chest. "Didn't I say we were two stars in the same sky?"

I had been attempting to keep such sentiments thrust to the bottom of my memory least I wake up and find my arms locked around my chest, Glossop peering down at me with a gimlet eye. 

"How lovely, you...Bertie, what's this?"

Sensing a drop in the Bassett's voice - almost if she'd just been informed there was a world shortage of bunny rabbits to coo over - I reached for the letter in her paw.

                                    *************************************************

Here are my words, and I am not proud of them.

_Darling Bertie,_

_was smashing to see you at Cannes last week! You rotter, you, surely you must know it's not sporting to make such promises to a girl and then leave her. How I will wait until next summer is beyond me. Oh Bertie, I can't wait until I see you next with that ring in your hand. I was thinking a spring wedding, maybe at your aunt's? I cannot wait to meet her, to make close friends with a woman I will be see every Christmas as long as I live! My sweet, words escape me. I have enclosed the purse you gifted me as a reminder of our times together, and to promise you we will meet again._

_All my love and kisses,_

_Es._

The words of a terribly forward and besotted woman - these would, I believed, be enough to shake Miss. Madeline's belief in Bertie's adoration. How easy it had been to let those words spill over my paper rather embarrassed me, and I hoped Mr. Wooster would never raise them between us. Whenever marriage, even as a casual topic was raised between us, he became terribly maudlin. I understood.

I would be lying to say that, in my deepest heart, I had never thought of binding myself to him in such a way. For as long as he needed me I would be his, at his side, but that would never be quite enough.

I glanced out from behind a convenient rose bush to see Miss. Madeline striding away, body shaking with sobs. My master was staring at the blue purse - purchased in town by a helpful scullery maid, a credit to any household - and, when I had deemed it safe, moved towards him.

"I trust you will sleep sounder now, sir?"

The look he gave me came very close to crumbling all my boundaries. At such a gaze I longed to throw myself into his grasp, to embrace him in a manner decidedly un-English. I settled for a quick nod.

"No one compares to you, Jeeves."

"Very kind, sir."

 

 


End file.
